The New Adventures of Sherlock Holmes: The Murdered Magician
by sanjana.manchala
Summary: This is my new venture. I've been watching Sherlock and Elementary and I was inspired to write my own modern retelling, with aspects of both series. The narrative is in first person, jumping between Holmes and Watson at regular intervals. A magician was murdered, and the two new flatmates have to figure out who did it Read and Review, and no flames please! Holmes/Watson friendship
1. A New Flatmate

**Hello, all! If you've been reading my other fanfictions, you'll notice that I don't have a pattern as to what I read. I go from HP to Tintin, and now to Sherlock Holmes. I've started writing a dual-perspective modern fic combining a couple of premises from Elementary (Watson is female, Holmes lives in the states) and Sherlock (Holmes and Watson are both British, Holmes needs a flatmate, and the captain is Lestrade). **

**Disclaimer: All characters except for Detective Clifford belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The murder is entirely mine, though.**

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Chapter 1: A New Flatmate

HOLMES

It was quite an ordinary and boring day. I had been offered three cases by post this morning and had solved all of them within half an hour. Now I had a breakfast to worry about, and a rent situation to take care of. Specifically, the fact that my landlade, or "super" as these ridiculous Americans called them, was going to turn me out of my loft if I couldn't make good on the last two months of rent. It was quite ironic, really, because I _had _solved several cases, however trivial, on her request, that should have accounted for the money I owed her. Breakfast could bloody well wait. I needed a flat mate last week.

I had taken out an ad on that odd website – Craigslist, I believe it's called. Who was Craig? Why was it _his _list? I made a mental note to search it up later, if only to add a bit of new information to my otherwise mundade day.

As if someone had read my mind, I received a textual transmission out of the blue that read – "Potential flat mate, St. Vincent's Mem. Hsptl, 30 min, Dr. B." Why on earth did people wish to save time by omitting letters of vital importance from ordinary words? It was frustrating and cumbersome, but I realized that trying to solve these trivial problems would only attract annoyance from those I was trying to correct. I had also come to realize that the things I found bothersome seldom mattered to the rest of the world. Very difficult to understand why that was, really.

And so I made my way over to my car to travel to the mentioned hospital, hoping that my potential flatmate wouldn't turn out to be either a patient or a corpse.

"Oi, Sherlock! Over here!" I heard a familiar and very slightly tolerated voice call from somewhere behind me. It was Dr. Bartholomew, one of my fellow Englishmen who had shifted his practice to the States. The only reason I spoke regularly to him was because he would let me sneak into his morgue to track down suspicious deaths on the days where my life was boring me.

What took me by surprise (which was strange, because such things rarely happened) was that the person accompanying him was a young woman.

I supposed that her features were pleasing, if I was the type to be pleased by the feminine features on a regular basis. The last (and perhaps the only) person who I'd found attractive was one Irene Adler-Norton. And that too for a fraction of a fleeting moment.

This young woman surveying me from behind Dr. B was on the shorter side of average, with dark wavy hair and light brown eyes. Her skin was pale and quite flawless, giving her the overall appearance of a china doll. Wonderful. I was eager to find out if she cracked just as easily.

WATSON

_I was quite taken aback at the sight of my potetnial flatmate. He was a remarkable-looking young man, but not in the way that one would expect. Tall, slender, and imposing, he had the distinctly odd air of being preoccupied by everything around him and yet completely focused on the situation at hand. I could tell that he was observing every detail about every person who happened to be walking past. Not something that people normally did. As I wondered if he was scrutinizing me similarly, I supposed that he was some sort of investigator. _

_"Sherlock!" Jay exclaimed upon spotting him. I followed him a little way behind, equally nervous and eager, but trying not to appear so. _

_"Dr. B," the strange young man with the odd name returned with a curt nod. "You've actually managed to pull one over my head this time." _

_"What, because I'm a girl?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. _

_"I would say that's the only surprising thing," Sherlock responded lightly. "Doctor, I'd say. Surgeon, probably pediatric, and recently returned from somewhere overseas. Not a holiday, though. Let me guess. MSF or military physician. Iraq or Afghanistan?"_

_"Afghanistan, military surgeon," I said, quite shocked. "How-how did you guess all that?"_

_"It's a trick he does," Jay explained. "He can tell you your bloody life story after half a minute."_

_"It's not a trick," Sherlock snapped, looking momentarily offended. "And probably ten seconds. Half a minute and I can tell you your horoscope." _

_"Are you a detective?" I asked, still not fully over my surprise._

_"Of sorts, yes," he replied in a clupped tone. "Sherlock Holmes, pleased to meet you." He stuck out his hand stiffly._

_"No you're not, but I'll return the false sentiment. And the handshake," I said, with a small smile. This man was going to be an interesting acquaintance. If, of course, he accepted me as a flatmate. _

_"How could you tell?" he demanded, apparently nonplussed._

_"You don't seem the type to be pleased to meet many people," I explained. "But I'm Jane Watson and I'd like to be your flatmate."_

_"Perfect," he said. "I like you. You're strange. Let's be flatmates."_

_"That's it?" I asked, blinking. "No follow-up questions about my financial history?"_

_"Your posh schooling tells me that you're doing quite all right for yourself," he answered. "And no time for that. Another week and I'd be turned out on my ear."_

_"Is that right?" I questioned. "Well, give me a day to pack a few things and I'll be at your flat with the next six months' rent ready."_

_"You have three hours, and meet me at the tenth precinct of the San Francisco Police Department," he said in a tone that made it clear I wasn't to argue._

_"All-all right," I responded, quite confused. "But why on earth?"_

_Because I have a good feeling about today," Sherlock stated. "Feels like…a nice confusing murder."_

_"He's a consultant," Jay supplied by way of explanation._

_"Consulting detective," Sherlock corrected sharply. "The worldn't one and only. Now I'll be off. Meet me at noon at the tenth. Good day to you both."_

_And with that, Mr. Sherlock Holmes turned abruptly on his heel and stalked off. _

_"He's…" I began, trailing off as I searched for the right word._

_"Peculiar?" Jason filled in helpfully._

_"Interesting," I said, feeling a small smile tug at my lips. This relationship was going to be quite interesting, wherever it would go._

HOLMES

I tapped my foot impatiently, glancing at the clock every few seconds to observe the punctuality of my new flatmate. If she kept me waiting for more than two minutes, it wouldn't be done.

Surprisingly, I saw her step out of the lift just as the clock struck noon.

"Twelve o'clock sharp," I remarked. "Well done, Watson. And I see you had time to visit the flat and pay the rent before you arrived."

"I'm a doctor," Watson explained. "Or I was, anyway. Punctuality is a necessity. And how did you know?"

"Your things are not with you, and there is a bank teller's receipt sticking out of your purse," I answered, wondering how people didn't know they made it very easy for me to glean things from them. "I find it quite odd that you don't use the machines," I added.

"I tried, but they weren't working," she replied. "So, this is the police station, eh?"

"Astutely observed, Watson," I said. "Come along, then. I hope you aren't queasy in the presence of corpses. Though I can't imagine why you would be, having served in a war zone."

"Scary, that trick of yours," she retorted. "What hospital's the morgue at, then?"

I found myself unable to restrain the slightest smile. Dr. Watson was proving to be a more suitable companion than I'd originally thought. Silently, I led her to the parking lot, from where we made our way to St. Vincent's Memorial Hospital.

"Why didn't you just ask me to come back here?" she asked, apparently confused.

"Because I was due at the station," I explained simply. "And I didn't know how long it was going to take."

We made our way to the elevators, and down to the basement where, quite fittingly, most morgues were located. Perhaps hospitals were where all the cliches of horror films were created. I made a mental note to write down this observation and study it further.

As a situation of equal luck and misfortune, Dr. B was no longer in the morgue. Luck, because I wouldn't have to listen to his endless drivel and misfortune because if this murder turned out to be easy, then I wouldn't have anything with which to occupy the rest of my day.

The captain, whom I repeatedly referred to as "Inspector" (because his face would turn a lovely shade of purple), was waiting in the morgue with one of his insufferable lackeys – Clark or Clifton or some ridiculous name like that – and the unfortunate victim.

"Stabbed," I observed, taking note of the deep wound in the man's abdomen. "Not with a knife, but with a metal spike of some sort. The kind that you'd find on the tip of an iron gate." Right next to the slab was a small table on which an evidence back rested. There were a few objects that a magpie would have lifted from the ground quite eagerly.

"Who's your new friend?" Clark/Clifton asked in a tone that seemed to me as though he was addressing Watson and not me.

"Where are my manners?" I replied. "Clark, meet Watson. Watson, meet Clifton. She's my new flatmate, and he's quite an inept detective."

"It's Clifford," the man corrected, sounding irritated. "And pleased to meet you, Miss Watson. This is Captain Gregory Lestrade, head of the tenth precinct."

"Very nice to meet you both," Watson responded pleasantly.

"Actually, Watson here is a doctor, _Clark,_" I informed the policemen, deliberately misnaming the detective. His face went quite blue. He and the captain made quite a pretty pair. "And now that we've gotten the pleasantries out of the way, who is this man and when did he die, Inspector?" Purple, lovely.

"We don't know who he is," Lestrade said. "All forms of identification were removed from his person. We _can _tell you, though, that he died between the hours of twelve and two this morning."

"He's had surgery," Watson spoke up out of the blue. The rest of us turned to her in surprise. "Within the last two weeks, I'd say," she went on, stepping closer to the slab and observing the body closely. "It looks like an appendectomy. Perhaps if you asked around nearby hospitals with a description of him and his recent surgery, you'd determine his identity."

"Marvelous, gentlemen," I declared, pleasantly surprised. "It seems like half your job's been done for you. Now, if you'll excuse us, Dr. Watson and I have some paperwork to take care of. Call us when you find out who this man is. Or was, to be precise. Good afternoon, Inspector, Clifton." Purple _and _blue. It really was quite a sight.


	2. A Baffling Murder

**Chapter 2 is up! I'm still working on chapter 3, but I like the direction the story has taken. If you have any opinions on how I should tweak the characters, please don't hesitate to leave a review detailing how I should do so, but I implore you to be polite. Don't say anything you wouldn't want a 7 year old to say. Thank you!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, except Detective Clifford. Everyone else belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Pity, really. All I own is the plot. ^_^**

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Chapter 2: A Baffling Murder

WATSON

_"What was that?" I demanded, pulling open the door to Sherlock's car. It was quite a nice car. Vintage. But I had no time to comment on that._

_"What was what?" he returned innocently, a smile playing at the corners of his lips._

_"We don't have any paperwork to take care of," I pointed out. "Why did you lie to them?"_

_"Because __**we **__are going to the crime scene," he replied, starting up the car. "And __**I **__am going to glean many things from the place that Constable Clifton wouldn't have been to detect even with a scanning-tunneling microscope."_

_"Why do you dislike those policemen?" I questioned._

_"I don't dislike them," he answered truthfully. "They give me work to do. I __**do **__dislike how slowly they solve cases. It drives me all the way through the ceiling. __**But **__I do enjoy irritation them. It satisfies my rather immature inner child."_

_"Oh, so you admit to that," I laughed. "Now, where is this crime scene?"_

_"According to the information I received over the phone, the victim was discovered in an alley this morning," he said._

_"Is this a robbery gone wrong?" I asked. "That's what these alley murders usually are, aren't they?"_

_"Yes," he answered. "However, the fatal wound wasn't made by a garden-variety murder weapon."_

_"Perhaps, but his wallet and identification were lifted from him post-mortem," I pointed out, feelinf wuite pleased to have put one over him. The glory was short-lived, however, because I soon found out that putting one over Sherlock Holmes was very nearly impossible._

_"That could have been done for one of several reasons," he countered. "If it were a robbery, they would've taken his valuables as well. I noticed quite an expensive watch and a gold chain in a plastic evidence bag by the body. I'm almost certain that the purpose for the removal of this man's property was because no one __**wanted **__us to be able to identify him, which leads me to belive that he's slightly to moderately famous. The killer didn't want this murder to gain a lot of publicity."_

_I glanced at him, quite impressed at how quickly he had arrived at that conclusion and how simple he made the reasoning seem._

_"Right, here we are," he announced, pulling up by a building on the corner of the aller. "Up you get. I might need your medical expertise."_

_"What for?" I asked, unable to help but feel a little flattered._

_"I don't know yet," Sherlock answered._

_He led me into the alley, which, though it was light outside, was quite dark. It was also very deserted, even though it was well into the day. Perhaps the police tape contributed to that as well. As I swept my gaze around the alley, I was surprised to observe that there were no signs that such a violent crime had taken place. No blood spatter and such._

_"He didn't die here," I heard myself say. "I'd say that he was killed elsewhere, and brought here. There's no blood, which is surprising for such a gaping wound." _

_"Excellent!" Sherlock remarked, straightening back up. "Anything else you can tell me?" _

_"Well, I believe that the man was killed nearer twelve than two," I answered slowly. "We saw him round noon. Full rigor mortis takes place about twelve hours after death, and the victim was in full rigor."_

_"Brilliant," he stated. "Although I had realized all of this much earlier, I wanted to test you. You know, you should really consider giving up medicine and being my consulting partner."_

_"I told you, I've already given up medicine," I responded, feeling, as usual, resentful of this fact._

_"Against your will, eh?" he asked, getting down on his hands and knees and poking around in quite a comical manner._

_"How do you just guess all of these things?" I demanded. "Are you some sort of psychic?"_

_"No," he replied, rooting through the rubbish. "In fact, I find that accusation quite insulting. I'm a very observant person, and capable of putting two and two together faster than the lot of you, I noticed your bitter tone and your shift from the present to the past tense when you spoke of your profession earlier. __**You **__still consider yourself a doctor, but others don't. If I were to hazard a guess, I'd say medical malpractice. Am I right?" _

_"You are incredibly insensitive," I managed to force out, trying my level best to push the tears that were forming back in. It was rather silly of me to feel this hurt, but my history hadn't been dredged up in a while, and so there it was._

_"That, I am," he replied, standing back up. "A Marchioness once called me a heartless cad. But more on that later. I've found something."_

HOLMES

I pulled a small pin out of a nearby dumpster, holding it up for Watson to see.

"This pin identifies our victim as a rather important member of the International Guild of Magicians," I said.

"Or the killer," she argued. I rolled my eyes, frustrated at how dense she was being. It annoyed me that people who showed such incredibly helpful bursts of brilliance could be, rather incongruously, so remarkably unobservant.

"There's blood on it from the murder," I said. "I"ll wager a twenty that it's the victim's. The killer wouldn't ever bring anything along that could've identified him, if he is, in fact, as intelligent and careful as he seems. He must've seen this small pin at the last minute and chuched it into the dumpster over there."

"International Guild of Magicians," she said. "What on earth's that?"

"Just what it sounds like," I replied. "A cabal of magician performers who congregate and set the standards and safety protocol for tricks. They're like the United Nations for hustlers and charlatans."

"So you don't like magicians?" Watson asked. "Why am I not surprised?"

"No," I answered. "I know all their tricks. There isn't much to them, and knowing how they work makes them infinitely less entertaining. It also makes the magicians frauds and the audience complete idiots, because they're being cheated so obviously."

"You don't like _anyone, _do you?" Watson demanded.

"Took you long enough," I said. "Now, let's go. We've gotten everything we can from here. Back to the precinct. Those dimwits had better turned something useful up for us."

I climbed into the driver's seat, pausing briefuly as I started the car to notice that Watson had a rather sullen expression on her face. Perhaps I'd offended her in some way, but I couldn't imagine how. I had been perfectly pleasant the entire day so far. Apart from the probably unnecessary crack about medical malpractice. I decided I couldn't afford to antagonize my flatmate in a day, so I reluctantly started a conversation.

"I've upset you," I observed.

"Astutely observed, Sherlock," she replied in a deep, sarcastic voice that was obviously supposed to be mine. So now she was mocking me. And not very subtly at that.

"What did I say?" I asked. "If I had a penny for every upsetting thing I said to everyone, I wouldn't need you to keep up the rent."

"Oh, keep going, you're on a roll," she said snidely. "How on earth did you know about the malpractice?"

"Educated guess," I answered. "You seemed sad about the pass, but resentful and angry at the same time. You feel wronged yet guilty. What happened? Who died on your operating table?"

"Emily Lawrence," Watson replied. "She was twelve. Her parents were diplomats posted in the area. They served me with a lawsuit and I had my practicing licence suspended. Are you happy? Satisfied that you were right?"

"Yes," I admitted, although I knew that was the wrong answer. "But since it's a touchy subject for you, I shan't pry until you're ready to tell me. I have _that _much sensitivity."

"How are you so certain that I'll tell you?" Watson demanded.

"People always tell me," I explained with a small smile.

"I happen to love magic shows," she said. "Therefore, you also called me a complete idiot."

"I've been known to do things like that," I replied. "Now, we've arrived, so shall we trade findings with the police?"

The lift ride was silent and awkward, so I knew for certain that Watson hadn't forgiven me yet. So much for flatmates. And women. They always expected us men to know _exactly _what we'd done wrong without any hints. And then they're sit and sulk for hours, expecting us to huess at our indiscretions and then grovel. This was why I never involved myself with women. They were a hassle. But now, I had little choice. **(A/N: I'm a girl, myself, but my dad and my many guy friends have complained about this, so I presumed it was a thing that most guys have a problem with. No sexism intended.)**

After what seemed like an age, the lift doors opened on the bull pen. Ridiculous name, that. There were no cattle, and it wasn't a pen. It was simply an open office.

"Ah, Holmes, just the man we wanted to see," Captain Lestrade said, sauntering out of his office with the same annoying casualness which the police were known for. "We have some new information."

"As do we," I declared, approaching him. "I can't believe you people earned your high ranks without having any investigative abilities whatsoever."

"You're too kind," Lestrade retorted. "Can we get the insults out of the way so that we can solve this murder?"

"That was the only one I had today, so yes, I am being too kind," I responded. "Now why did you want to see me?"

"We followed Miss Watson's lead and found out that one Mr. Eric White was the only patient matching our description to undergo an appendectomy. He received the surgery ten days ago," Lestrade detailed. "And he's the proprietor of an extremely famous…"

"Magic shop?" I finished for him.

"Yeah, how did you know?" Lestrade asked.

"I really wish people would stop asking me that," I said with a sigh of exasperation.

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**Et voila! Chapter 2! Stay tuned for more!**


	3. White's World Of Wonders

**Third Chappie Up! They seem to be getting along quite well - Holmes using Watson for his cases and Watson subsequently getting annoyed at aforementioned using. Also, Holmes has some habits that will drive Watson insane in upcoming chapters, and not in the good way. Who do you think killed the magician? Any takers?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, unfortunately, except for Detective Clifford. All characters belong to the genius Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I wish I did own them, though. **

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Chapter 3: White's World Of Wonders

WATSON

_Sherlock Holmes was proving to be more of an oddity that I'd previously thought. He was remarkably observant, and boastful about it, but he was also completely forthcoming about his rudeness and insensitivity. He was, moreover, intelligent, but incredibly juvenile at time. In short, he was a walking contradiction,_

_I found myself musing about this as I followed him into White's World Of Wonders – Eric White's magic shop, stopping short which I discovered that my new flatmate… was a smoker. I don't know how I'd missed that. I could normally smell the odor of tobacco smoke on people quite easily._

_"Oh, don't be so dramatic," he chided, inhaling the smoke and blowing it out of his mouth. "I don't smoke inside the loft."_

_"It's still a disgusting habit," I snapped, waving away the cloud of evaporated arsenic and tar. "And I'm going to cure you of it or my name isn't Jane Watson." _

_"I used to be a recreational cocaine user," he replied. "I figured that cigarettes were the lesser of two evils. __**And **__the nicotine is quite…stimulating."_

_"You smoke so you can think?" I burst out. "Most people take tablets or drink coffee. As a doctor, I can tell you for certain that you're going to develop a lung problem and die much too young."_

_"__**Former **__doctor," Sherlock corrected, for the sole purpose of irritating me. "Now, are you done mothering me? Can we go to the counter and interrogate Mr. Eric White's shop assistant."_

_"For now," I seethed. "But I'm not dropping this topic. We __**will **__discuss it later at home."_

_"Already nesting, are we?" he retorted snidely. _

_I glared at him but complied, approaching the counter where a young and attractive male assistant stood. He was quite obviously making eyes at me, but I was trying my level best to appear uninterested. _

_"Good day to you, young sir," Sherlock greeted him. "Your boss, the proprietor of this shop, was murdered at around midnight. Did you do it?"_

_"No!" the young man burst out, looking truly shocked and horrified. "Why would you even ask that?" I was wondering just the same thing, but I kept myself silent, admiring my new acquaintance's directness. _

_"Just covering all my bases, as you Americans say," Sherlock replied. "Now, since you appear truly surprised, I have a few questions to ask you. Answer them in order, please. Where were you when the murder was taking place – between the hours of of midnight and two in the morning? Who do you know who'd want to attack or kill your boss? And in what capacity did he serve on the International Guild of Magicians?"_

_"I was in the college library," the assistant began. "The library is open all day and night during finals week so we can cram. I was with a study group. You can ask all of them and the librarian to confirm that for you. I don't know who'd want to hurt Mr. White, but as far as I've seen, magicians are a pretty competitive bunch. And he was on the board of Standards and Practices. All new tricks were to be approved by him and his committee before they could be performed."_

_"What's you name?" I asked, finding it rather surprising that Sherlock had forgotten this glaring and crucial detail._

_"Arthur Jenkins," he replied. "What's yours?"_

_"Not important," Sherlock said shortly, not leaving me any time to answer. Since when was my name not important? What a git. "Thank you for the information. Oh, one last thing. Did Mr. White have any living relatives?"_

_"A cousin," a familiar, American-accented voice said from behind us. "How the hell did you two get here before us? We left together."_

_"Shortcut," I explained to Detective Clifford. "He knows almost every one in the city. Where've you lot been?"_

_"Stuck on the main roads," Clifford answered. "Mr. Jenkins, thank you for being so helpful._

_"No problem," Arthur said, looking pointedly at me, even though he was addressing the detective. I blinked rapidly and looked away, kicking myself for feeling flattered at his advances. "Anything to do right by my boss."_

_"Tell me, Mr. Jenkins," Sherlock interjected suddenly, "do you sell any iron maidens here?"_

_"No way, they're too dangerous!" Arthur exclaimed forcefully. "But I think Mr. White had one in his workshop?_

_"Workshop? Is it in the back of the store?" I asked._

_"Mr. White wouldn't keep a workshop in a place where it could easily be found," Arthur explained. "He was a brilliant trick engineer, so he had a secret workshop to keep all his inventions. I don't know where it is, but I know it exists. He would hide out there just before his big performances. He had one just last night, in fact. I wonder if he was attacked on the way back."_

_"Performance?" Sherlock demanded. "Where?" _

_"At the Shelton Theater in Union Square," Arthur replied. "It was from eight to ten last night. I was planning to attend, but I had studying to do."_

_"Thank you, that's all we need," Sherlock declared. "Watson, let's leave. I've heard that this Shelton Theater Place is quite interesting."_

_I smiled and followed him to the door, not missing Arthur Jenkins' flirtatious glance._

_"Good afternoon, Mr. Jenkins!" I called as the door swung shut behind me._

HOLMES

"Could the two of you have been any more obvious?" I demanded, pulling out of the lot and driving out into the crowded street.

"Obvious?" Watson returned, apparently trying to act innocent. I frowned disapprovingly. She should have known better than to try playing coy with the most observant man in the world.

"You and Mr. Arthur Jenkins," I said exasperatedly. "It's quite obvious that he wants to get off with you and that _you_, despite your attempts to disguise your intentions, are quite willing to accept his offers."

"Oh, please," she scorned. "I don't want to get off with a uni student."

"I didn't say that," I pointed out, quite annoyed that she hadn't caught my drift. "_He _wants to get off with _you, _and _you _are quite flattered at the sentiment, as it were." Her reaction to blush and look away only confirmed my suspicions. Honestly, people shouldn't even try. Their attempts at dissembling were pitiful and always crumbled after seconds of my brief scrutiny.

"Are we even going home today?" Watson whined. Perfect. A subject change. This only served to prove my point further, but I wasn't going to get into it with her. She might have mistaken my intentions.

"Perhaps," I answered. "It all depends on whether or not we gather enough information."

"It's already starting to get dark," she pointed out. "Do you really want to go hunting for a mysterious secret warehouse at this time of day?"

"You have a point," I admitted grudgingly. "But we are going to find out what happened immediately before, during and just after the performance of Mr. White at the Shelton Theater. Then, we can go home, as you are so fond of calling it."

I found myself quite amused at the combination of exasperation and embarrassment on Watson's face. I wondered if I should stop bothering her, but decided against it because it was far too entertaining.

"Oh, here we are," Watson said, jolting me out of my musings. If I wasn't mistaken, and I rarely am, I detected a hint of relief spilling into her voice. Which, frankly, insulted me more than slightly. I would imagine that many people would enjoy being in my company.

"Right, then," I said, pulling over by the sidewalk. The Shelton Theater was quite small and cozy-looking, and seemed the kind of place that hosted improvisational theater troupes rather than a magic act. "Off you go."

"Off _I _go?" she demanded, apparently baffled.

"Yes," I replied simply. "I'll give you five whole minutes to duck in and out of the theater and find everything you can about Mr. White's show."

"Why me?" she asked.

"You clearly have an affinity for the type of work that I do here," I explained impatiently. "I deliberately slipped up in asking Mr. Arthur Jenkins his name to see if you'd take the initiative and ask for me. You didn't disappoint me. Go on, then. Five minutes!"

"All right," she conceded, hurrying out of the car.

"And try not to _flirt _with the usher," I added with a smirk.

WATSON

_And so I was unceremoniously ejected from the car and out onto the street, left to interrogate the manager of the theater in five minutes. Five bloody minutes! I supposed that he thought he was being generous, prodigal detective that he was. So I began to rack my brain, coming up with all of the useful questions I could possibly ask._

_"Hello?" I called, looking around the apparently deserted theater. "Hello, is anyone there? I only want to ask you a few questions!"_

_"Oh, sorry!" a small man cried, scurrying in from an office. "I'm the floor manager. Who are you and what's the matter?"_

_"I'm so sorry for barging in, sir," I apologized. "But my partner's in the car and I have to ask you what you know about the murder of Mr. Eric White, the magician who performed here last night."_

_"Eric White is dead?" the floor manager demanded, shocked._

_"He was found dead in an alley early this morning," I explained. "May I know your name, sir?"_

_"Harry Winslow," the man replied._

_"Was Mr. White behaving oddly yesterday? Did he seem agitated or anxious in any way?" I asked. Great. Now I was starting to sound like one of the coppers on the telly._

_"Come to think of it, yeah," Mr. Winslow answered after a moment's pause. "He came in all angry, like he'd been in a fight with someone."_

_"What about during the show? Did his performance go smoothly?" I questioned._

_"Yeah," he replied. "His act always went slowly. People loved volunteering, even for dangerous things like the iron maiden."_

_"Did he have an iron maiden with him last night?" I asked, suddenly realizing why Sherlock had begged the question about the device earlier._

_"No, he didn't, but he had a spectacular trick with a zig-zag box," Mr. Winslow said._

_"That's all, thanks!" I exclaimed, hurrying towards the door. "You've been very helpful!" I ran out to the car, only to see Sherlock arriving at the driver's door with equal haste. He glanced at me with a slightly apologetic grin and ducked inside. "Where've you been?" I demanded, opening my door._

_"Hunting down something useful," Sherlock answered. "I sent you in to cause a bit of a distraction so that I could poke round backstage and find out about Mr. White."_

_"So you didn't need me to ask him any questions?" I exploded, outraged._

_"Well, I needed you chat him up a little, so he wouldn't notice me sneaking in and out of the dressing rooms," he responded, putting the car into gear. "So thank you for affording me the perfect opportunity to snoop round."_

_"You are so infuriating," I grumbled, glaring at him._

_"__**But**__ I managed to track down Mr. White's workshop," he responded happily. "We will, however, wait until tomorrow morning to visit it, as per your wishes."_

* * *

**Chapter 3! What do you think so far? ^_^**


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